


The Ostensible Meaning (A Story from Floor Five)

by Closeted_Bookworm



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Implied Violence, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Might write another chapter later we'll see, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27418969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Closeted_Bookworm/pseuds/Closeted_Bookworm
Summary: When Tommy first appeared before the Capitol as a Victor, he would've given anything to change the way they presented him. His persona followed him everywhere, and he couldn't erase it no matter how much he hated it.It was his own fault, anyways.Congratulations to 'TommyInnit', Victor of the 57th Annual Hunger Games!
Relationships: It's platonic bois, Ngl never thought I'd write these two together but I love it, TommyInnit & Michael Reeves
Comments: 4
Kudos: 100
Collections: victors' tower (stories from floor 6)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [where there's smoke (floor 5)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561558) by Anonymous. 



> This is my (first? Might be more coming) contribution to the Victor's Tower AU from the wonderful [WreakingHavoc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/pseuds/WreakingHavok)! I highly recommend you go and read his stuff, though it's technically not required reading for this fic. Enjoy!
> 
> Universe from ["where there's smoke (floor 5)"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561558/chapters/53913106) by Anonymous and ["as I get older (floor 6)"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502287/chapters/53771662) by Wreaking Havoc
> 
> Edit: As of 1-7-20, Wreaking Havoc is discontinuing and will shortly be deleting "as I get older," but the AU it was a part of is still being written!

Anyone who saw TommyInnit at an event might remark that he was perhaps the most openly chaotic person in attendance. Of course, it didn’t ever matter to people whether that was true or not. All they saw was a loud-mouthed teenager making the rounds, irking everyone within earshot while also being just tolerable enough to retain a loyal following. 

In reality, Tommy would much rather toss his horribly itchy suit to the press and hang out with his real friends, laughing and bantering at a reasonable volume and bringing up every inside joke the Capitol people would never understand. He wanted so badly to rip the constricting snakeskin prosthetics off his face, to scrub the apple-red blush from his cheeks, and to toss his one amber contact into the punch bowl and cackle as some unsuspecting citizen scooped it out with a ladleful of blood red liquid. The Capitol could keep its clever symbolism, he wanted no part of it. Half the time he wished he really was a snake. Then he could shed his glued-on skin like so much dirty washing. 

As much as he hated the outfit itself, he hated what it represented even more. His post-Games branding hadn’t been as obvious as someone like Wilbur’s, but it still reflected the awful events of the Arena. Most of the shallow Capitol citizens thought it was a reference to the snake infested river that had split his Arena in two, but anyone who gave it an ounce of thought knew better. Tommy knew the best of all. 

He had been the friendliest person in his games. He made ally after ally, working his way into people’s hearts by appearing mediocre and naive, yet still helpful. Once he gained someone’s trust, then- well, he tried not to think about it much anymore. His costume was two-faced for a reason. 

He still knew all their names. He had tried to forget them, but, for better or worse, he had a knack for remembering people. Point to any Victor in the room right now, and he probably could give their name, the number of their Games, and who they streamed with most. The faces of those who’d entered the Arena with him were burned into his mind more firmly than most. They would stay with him for the rest of his life, just like the cursed persona he was forced to keep up for the public. 

No one had really started expecting him to win his Games until over halfway through them. By the time two thirds of the contestants were gone, it had become a guessing game for them, who he would befriend next. The betting on who he’d target was almost as intense as the speculation on who’d actually win. His sickening highlights reel was cut together like a messed-up comedy skit, showing all of the trust he’d built in a disgustingly campy montage before playing all his betrayals in quick succession. Audience members at his ceremony were laughing. _Laughing._ It made him unbelievably, horridly angry. The editors made the other tributes look so stupid for trusting him. They didn’t deserve that disrespect. 

But now he was stuck with scales, branded as a liar and a jokester and never taken seriously. He could announce that he was going to jump off the roof and people would chuckle and murmur “He’s hilarious.” Not that jumping off the roof would work anyways. He’d considered it before, craving the attention it would get him in his early days as a Victor, but he was well past that now. All something like that would bring him was trouble. 

There weren’t many people in the Tower that he felt comfortable saying understood him. He confided in many people, that’s just the way he was, but not many could truly empathize with him. 

Surprisingly, the person he’d gravitated towards most was fellow floormate Michael Reeves. Their personas bounced off each other well, and any stream they were on together was such a dichotomy between high-energy flippancy and biting sarcasm that it was difficult for anyone, including the viewers, to stand it for too long. 

Off camera, though, their interests meshed together in a strange unspoken arrangement both of them were too proud to call friendship. Tommy, whose father had been in charge of textile machine maintenance in District Eight, found familiar solace in Michael’s inventions, and in turn he was a bright point of hopeless optimism in the life of the long-time Victor. The almost seven year age difference dropped away when they were together. Michael taught Tommy to swim and gave him spare parts to tinker with, and Tommy filled the oppressive silences of the floor with cheerful chatter and wit, saving Michael from the loneliness of his own thoughts. They both swore like sailors and liked the same foods, though neither of them were allowed to use the kitchen. 

Michael made a point to rope him into most of his projects. Even though the complicated electronics were much smaller than the contraptions he had helped his dad with back in Eight, he learned quickly and rapidly adapted his existing skills for use with the tiny circuits. The job of Michael’s “lab assistant” came with certain risks (electrocution, in most cases, both purposeful and accidental), but Michael never put him through anything he didn’t also do to himself, and never without telling him first, a courtesy the rest of the floor wasn’t often granted. If they were in on something, they were in it together. And it was worth it, since at the end they usually got to prank at least one other member of the floor with whatever they’d created. 

Michael gave him a sense of normalcy and domesticity that he hadn’t found anywhere else. Sure, it might be odd to feel at home designing something to shock your friends (literally), but Tommy would take what he could get. Anything to push past the flighty panic he’d first escaped the Arena with. 

Escaped was not the right word, he decided. He hadn’t gotten away, the Games and the Capitol still haunted him wherever he went. If he was careful, however, he could tamp down the open well of emotion. Escaped was a better word for it than won. No one won the Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I'd love it if you could leave a comment! Reading them makes my day. 
> 
> For now this is a one shot, but I have a really good idea for another chapter, so hopefully I can get it down on paper at some point. 
> 
> Also, this is not canon to the Victor's Tower AU. Just me writing for fun :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some dubious chemistry ahead (literal chemistry, not shippy stuff)

For Tommy, the lead-up to the private scoring sessions was one of the most stressful parts of preparing for the games. He had no idea what to do. Any skill he had with weapons had been learned over the past week. He couldn’t use that to dazzle the Gamemakers, he hadn’t even been able to impress the snotty thirteen-year-old girl who’d been reaped from Eleven. He didn’t have many survival skills either. The tightly packed urban sprawl of his district hadn’t left much room for wild landscapes fit to go camping in. He’d passed an hour learning how to start a fire and build shelters the day before, but again, it was nothing special. He was painfully average at everything he tried. 

He stood uncertainly in the center of the training room, trying to pick a skill to practice before his evaluation tomorrow. 

He needed to find something that he excelled at. Of course, he had some talents. He was very clever with his hands. Growing up in Eight, he had learned to sew almost before he could walk. He could mend a split seam in his sleep, but that wouldn’t help him here. 

Or would it? His gaze landed on the station that taught the basics of improvised weaponry. Crafting was the one area he stood out in, maybe he could turn it to his advantage. He wandered over, eyes dancing over the table scattered with miscellaneous items that might be found in the Cornucopia. He nodded to the instructor and politely declined a lesson, picking up the first aid kit and sorting through the contents. 

Bingo. A needle and thread, intended for stitching wounds shut. The first seeds of an idea were starting to germinate in his brain. As he examined the other supplies at the station, he grinned. He might actually pull this off.

\---

Tommy didn't wait for the Games to start to set his plan in action. While he was waiting for his turn in front of the Gamemakers, he flitted from person to person, trying to establish himself as a friend or even an ally to as many people as possible. He laughed and cracked jokes with those in the mood for them, talked to gently for the ones who were not, and semi-successfully tried to prove to the Careers that he wasn't a complete waste of space. If this angle was going to work, networking would be everything.

The cafeteria gradually emptied around him, and the nerves wriggling in his stomach grew with every person that walked through the intimidating double doors. He refused to show it, though, remaining as carefree as ever. He determinedly kept the cracks out of his voice as the tribute from seven left the group, running over his plan he’d perfected with Kryoz, his mentor, for the thousandth time that morning. After an excruciatingly long five minutes had passed, he was called in. He merrily wished good luck to the people left in the room and sauntered through the door, the picture of unperturbed ease. 

The evaluation room was like a condensed version of the enormous training hall, cluttered with equipment and weapon racks containing everything from slender daggers to a massive medieval mace. A punching bag dangled from the ceiling, and he sized it up with a keen eye. It would do. He quickly located the first aid kit and the other items he’d need, and stored the information away for later. First, he had to make an impression. 

The Gamemakers were seated at a long table at the back of the room, chatting amongst themselves and snacking on the provided food. He was struck with how _casual_ it felt. He’d been expecting a stone-faced row of stern old men and women scrutinizing his every move, not what seemed dangerously close to a high school reunion. He kept his posture deliberately relaxed. The mood might work to his advantage if he could play it right. He could be the entertainment if that’s what they wanted. 

He took a deep breath and sprinted straight for the punching bag, launching himself upwards and latching onto the heavy sandbag like a barnacle. He shimmied upwards and stood on the top of it, one arm keeping him secure on the rope while the other waved enthusiastically at the Gamemakers. 

“Hi there!” he hollered cheerfully, some of his anxiety diminishing as he got into character. He giggled for good measure, throwing his weight to the side so the bag would spin in a lazy circle. The majority of the Gamemakers were looking his way now. Their expressions were a mixed bag of confusion, surprise, and amusement. Step one, check. 

He leaped back to the ground, his innocent smile glaringly bright. 

“I’m Tommy,” he introduced himself, every syllable bouncy and light. He started making his way over to the first aid kit, snagging a thin throwing knife on his way over. “I know I haven’t technically had my naming ceremony yet, but my Arena name’s gonna be TommyInnit.”

He had to move fast, he was losing some of them already. He scooped up the box of medical supplies and a canvas bag that contained a few smoke grenades, dumping them onto a clear table and setting to work. He split the bag down one seam with a deft flick of his hand and set the contents aside, neatly cutting the fabric into the shape he wanted. 

He never stopped talking, even with his eyes glued on his project. The room had excellent acoustics, and his mirthful tones rolled through the room as he told the Gamemakers anything he could think of to keep their attention focused on him. He’d brainstormed a few topics the night before, but it didn’t take him long to get completely off script, relating a hilarious story from a few years ago when he’d snuck into a textile factory looking for his dad and ended up completely drenched in red dye. 

“I looked like I’d murdered everyone there and run away from the Peacekeepers. I was pink for weeks,” he laughed as he pulled the needle and thread from the first aid kit and started stitching together his design, a thin, fabric stuffed tube that tapered off at one end. “My best friend saw me, and you know what I told him? ‘Just killed a woman, feeling good.’ Actually, a woman almost killed me, my mom was so mad.” 

He heard a few appreciative chuckles from his audience. Good, they were still listening. He tied off the thread and cut it with his teeth, then reached for the smoke grenades he’d left to the side. When he’d asked the day before, the instructor had told him the one in his hands now would produce thick white vapor covering an area about ten feet in diameter. He set it on the edge of the table and grabbed a different one, which was supposed to have a much bigger area of effect. 

His endless stream of words switched tracks, telling the Gamemakers about something embarrassing the tribute from three had done at lunch. Sweat was starting to bead on his brow. He needed to get this right. If he messed up neutralizing the grenade, he’d probably be burned from the chemical reaction, and the people watching him would probably be beyond irritated at the smoke flooding the room. 

He gingerly set it on its side and punched a hole in the bottom with his knife, barely holding back his sigh of relief as the white powder inside trickled out onto the table instead of exploding. According to the instructor, the substance was called potassium chlorate. He darted over to the table where the camouflage dyes were located and grabbed a bottle, a tiny thing containing dried herbs that was nearly empty. He poured the last of its contents into an empty bowl and ran back to his workspace, scooping some of the power from the smoke grenade into it. 

He started telling the Gamemakers about his experience in the Capitol, about how different the food was and how amazing clean, hot showers were. While they chortled over his description of his first train ride, he stuck his hand into his pocket and stealthily slipped some sugar he’d smuggled from breakfast into the container as well. Step two, done. 

Now for the riskier part of the plan. As he talked, his gestures got more and more animated, until he “accidentally” swept the smaller smoke grenade off the table. It clattered to the floor and Tommy yelped in pretend surprise as a thick cloud of smoke swallowed his station. He heard noises of shock from the Gamemakers, and sprang into action, stuffing the bottle into his sewn canvas creation, where he’d left a gap open for that purpose. He started coughing and stumbled back into view, clutching his completed project with the bottle hidden inside. 

“Sorry about that!” he called towards the back of the room. “Don’t worry, I can keep going. Let me show you what I’ve been working on.”

He saw a couple of them lean forward in anticipation, and he smiled, holding his work up for them to see.

“Now, it may look like I’ve simply made a stuffed snake, like the one I slept with as a kid, but I’ve actually made the perfect gift.” He ambled over to a training dummy and draped it around its neck. “I’m planning to give something similar to the tributes I meet in the Arena. I’m trying to make as many friends as possible.” 

He strolled to the table dedicated to survival skills and picked up a flint, steel and some kindling. He knew the Gamemakers were confused by what he was doing, their opinion of him likely dropping by the second. He stood to the left of the dummy and stared the Gamemakers right in the face as he lit the end of his bundle of kindling. 

“I have a lot to give to the other tributes.”

He lit the tail of his hand-sewn snake on fire and bowed to the Gamemakers, then walked over and stood behind a weapons rack as the flame ate higher and higher up the fabric. The dummy got singed, but remained undamaged. Tommy bit his lip. Just a few more seconds. The Head Gamemaker got to his feet.

“Well, thank you for the interesting performance, Tommy, if you wouldn’t mind putting out the fire before you leave-”

The flame finally reached the head of the snake, where the bottle was concealed. In an instant, the flame quadrupled in intensity with a hungry roar, engulfing the head of the dummy with purple tinged fire. The Gamemakers were startled into silence as the violet flames tore at the training dummy, leaving it a smoking, headless husk. Tommy stepped forward again. 

“Like I said, this will be my gift to the others. For the audience, I’m Tommy, who’s Innit to win it. For the tributes, I’m Tommy who’s in your head, in your camp, in close for the kill. But they won’t know that until it’s too late.” He flashed his winning smile again. “No one sees me as a threat, which is exactly why I am one. You’ve been watching me train. I can handle myself, but I’m no match for a Career head to head. With this strategy, I’ll never face them directly. The ball will always be in my court.” He bowed for the second time, awaiting their reaction. 

The Head Gamemaker was grinning at him, a twinkle in his eye. He felt a flutter of pride. 

“Thank you very much Tommy, you’re dismissed.”

\---

Tommy scored an eight, matching his District number. He was perfectly unnoticeable. He was right in the middle of the pack, miles ahead of the only other twelve-year-old in their group, but leagues below the astounding score of eleven earned by the sixteen-year-old favored to win that year. Kryoz had slapped him on the back with a rough smile when the number came up.

“I would’ve thought a performance like yours would’ve earned you a nine at least,” he lamented. “It had to have been the most unusual thing they saw.” 

Tommy privately thought he deserved a nine as well, recalling what he’d seen from the other tributes who earned eights. Unless they had revealed some shocking skills in their sessions, he was more talented than they were. However… 

“Eight is much better,” he argued back. An eight said that he was competent without being a threat. A score of nine would’ve surpassed the lowest Career tribute score, and he did not want to make enemies in that group. 

The Gamemakers had given him an eight on purpose. They knew it was the score that would help the image he was trying to create. He wasn’t a fool. They wanted the games to be interesting, and he was promising them that he would try to do that. An eight said “I can help you, but I’m disposable. I have talents, but I’m not your competition.” An eight would make him friends. Friends that he could betray. His pride soured. If he made friends, they would not last long. To say he wasn't looking forward to it was the understatement of the century, but he was still determined to go through with it.

\---

When Tommy looked back on his younger self, he was disgusted. He was too competitive for his own good. All he had been thinking about at that stupid evaluation was impressing them. He had _wanted_ to win the Games. No twelve-year-old should ever want something like that. Most days, he was able to rationalize that he was a product of the way the Capitol framed the events, and that he had possessed the mindset of someone with the drive to survive. Other days, though, he questioned himself. What if he hadn’t done it out of necessity? What if that part of him that betrayed his friends would’ve come out without the Games, and the Capitol had merely given it a more violent way to manifest?

Those days were never good for him. They sent his mental health tumbling down a sheer slope he couldn't get back up alone, and left him a trembling mess reverting back to the broken animal they’d pulled out of the Arena after the worst two weeks he would ever live through. 

What would have happened if he hadn’t lit that crude stuffed snake on fire? Would he still be in the same position he was in now? He didn’t think so. There was no way someone like him could’ve won without deception. If he hadn’t acted the way he had, he would be dead. It didn’t mean it hurt any less. 

Sometimes, he imagined the scales on his cheek burning. Perhaps he was deserving of some fire of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chemical reaction Tommy used was supposed to be one between potassium chlorate and sucrose (sugar), with the heat from the fire setting it off instead of heat produced with sulfuric acid as a catalyst. I couldn't come up with a feasible way for him to get ahold of some, so I went with a substitute ':)
> 
> My depiction is probably wildly innacurate, but if you want to see the real thing, click [this link](https://youtu.be/VQi3uKN1VVw?t=65) for a video of someone doing the experiment!
> 
> (The URL is https://youtu.be/VQi3uKN1VVw?t=65)
> 
> Once again, I'd love if you could leave a comment! Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
